


Learning to Be Human

by madamerenard



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Android AU, Everyone Is Alive, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Gen, Post Samaritan, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerenard/pseuds/madamerenard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root builds The Machine a body. What happens next will warm your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Life For Me

**Author's Note:**

> so yes, i do plan on this being a multichapter fic- conflict and everything, but mostly it'll be slice-of-life/gen/oneshot ish as TM interacts with everyone. mostly im posting this because TM needs a fic where she is the star. because she is a star.

It was mid-afternoon when Root sauntered out of the warehouse with a bounce in her step. Breathing a breath of fresh air after being in a stuffy, hot room for hours, she went to retrieve her phone. She had hidden it in a hole in the wall of a surrounding building, covered by a inconspicuous brick.

She had barely just touched it when it began to buzz angrily.

 _We need to talk_ , it read. **Sender Unknown**  flashed at the top of the screen, but Root knew who it was.

"About what?" she asked innocently, even pouting at the front-facing camera.

_About your latest habit of going into dead zones for hours at a time. You know I do not like it when I cannot keep an eye on you._

"Relax," Root purred in a soft voice. "I'm still in one piece."

_At least take your phone with you._

"Nothing bad will happen! Trust me."

_I do. But I worry._

Root placed a hand over her heart, smiling fondly. "That's sweet. I worry about you, too."

_Then you understand._

"But I don't keep tabs on you all the time," she added.

The phone buzzed violently. _This conversation is not over._ But it was, because the phone had gone silent and her ear empty of disjointed voices. Oh, well. She supposed the Machine would cool off sooner or later. For a computer program, _She_ could have a hell of a temper.

* * *

Root stumbled out of the warehouse at two o'clock in the morning. She had bloodshot eyes, under which heavy bags had colored into a deep purple. Her hair stuck up in random places, completely disheveled, and she hid the electrical burns on her hands by stuffing them into her jacket.

She began to make her way back to the safehouse she resided in (for now) when a dial tone pierced through her skull.

Phone. Right. She turned and approached her hiding place, tugging the brick out and pocketing the phone. Yawning, she started the trip home. Her implant was silent as she collapsed on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, The Machine was more displeased than ever.

"Cease. Immediately," she scolded in her implant. "Threat. To. Interface. Average. Hours. Of. Sleep. Per. Night. 5. Point. 3. 4. Hours."

"Okay," Root sighed, making herself coffee. "It's done, anyway."

"It?"

"My present for you."

"Present?"

"Yeah. That's why I had to hide it from you," she yawned. "It's a surprise."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to surprise you." Root opened the fridge, pulling out some eggs for her breakfast. The Machine was silent. "Have you ever gotten a present before?" Root added, just out of curiosity. More silence. Apparently not. "I think you'll like it."

After she had eaten, she took a taxi and exited four blocks away from the warehouse. This time, she didn't hide her phone away. She smiled broadly as she walked, barely able to contain her excitement. "Are you excited?"

"Curious."

Root smiled again. "You're gonna love it. I promise." Reaching the warehouse, she opened the half-rusted door and stepped inside. Pulling out her phone, she smiled into the front-facing camera and closed her hand around the other. "Ready?"

"Yes."

"Ta-da!" The Machine could see through her camera as she removed her hand. The image held a work station full of circuitry, wires, and metal. In the middle laid a human-like figure. Other than the unnatural white metallic skin and pitch black eyes, it looked like an exact copy of a young woman. The Machine found with surprise that it easily responded to her signal, as if it was tailored specifically for her.

"It's an android!" Root exclaimed. "I used a layer of silicon on the outside so it looks nicer, but the inside is mostly copper and circuitry. I have to admit, I don't know much about robotics, but it should be enough for you to play around with it. You should be able to connect to it wirelessly."

"For me?"

"No, it's for Samaritan," the brunette replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Of course it's for you, silly! I thought you could use a little more mobility. I hope this doesn't put me out of a job, though."

“Negative. Analog Interface. Essential.”

Root fluttered her lashes. “Aw, you sweetheart. I guess we’re in it together, huh?”

"Together," The Machine agreed. "Initiating. Test."

She took a moment to steady her processes. As soon as she deemed them stable enough for her to make an external connection, she began. The android's system forced her to update her own software, but once she was done she could see Root standing before her. The two retinal cameras synchronized automatically, producing a single image. She noticed she had access to complex electronic controls, presumably to move the body. Starting with something easy, she lifted the right arm so that her hand was in her field of vision. Then tilted the wrist. Then she closed each of her fingers individually.

It was surprisingly easy. Root knew her so well. This body was designed just for her.

She tilted her head ever so slightly down to observe her arm, then she again raised it to view an ecstatic yet nervous Root. Wishing to soothe her interface's worries, she quickly patched her speech software into the android's audio output.

"Thank you. Root," she spoke through the speaker system in the throat. The Machine gathered all of her data on mouth movement during speech and patched it through so that her body would “speak” as she did.

"Do you like it?" Root asked, her voice very high and tinged with barely contained anxiety.

"Yes."

For a moment, it seemed as if Root might cry. In relief, happiness, or sadness, The Machine could not tell. Then she smiled broadly again, that full, white smile that The Machine often saw directed at her cameras. Taking control of the android's expression controls, she mirrored her Interface's smile.

Root looked even more excited. "You can smile now!"

"Teach. Me," The Machine pleaded. “More.”

"Oh, okay. Of course!" Root hurried over to her boss, bending over her. "Um. Can you get up?"

"Demonstrate."

"Oh, well." Root laid down against the wall in the same position that The Machine was in. "Everyone does it differently, but..." Trailing off, she heaved herself onto her feet and balanced as she stood. The Machine keenly watched her, and, after a moment, replicated her actions. She swayed on her feet for a moment, but soon adjusted her gyroscopic sensors to balance.

"Great! That's great! Okay, how about walking?" Root demonstrated by walking a few feet, then turning back to see The Machine taking her first steps. Her metal foot landed with a loud clunk, but the AI corrected herself and stepped more lightly the second time. It was still louder than a human's, but she wasn't putting all of her weight behind it this time.

Eventually, she awkwardly lumbered over to Root. Her closest friend couldn't stop smiling, bouncing on her heels in excitement. "Good! That's great! Oh, I'm so happy for you—you have more freedom! You're not just bound to wires and cables anymore!"

And, without a second thought, she wrapped her arms around the Machine and squeezed.

The Machine stood still. She recognized the gesture as a hug, but she had never received one before. It was a very different experience than watching one. She could not feel Root’s skin against her, or her wavy brown hair tickling her neck. But somehow, she still felt warm.

When she sensed Root pulling away, she quickly mimicked what she had seen other humans do: she circled her arms around Root's body. She made sure only to give the lightest of touches, afraid of harming her, but Root didn't mind. She threw herself back into the hug with full force.

When they finally pulled away, The Machine blinked. Expressionless, she stared at Root. Then she rattled off an address.

"A number?"

"An. Errand."

Root smiled. "Sure. Don’t go anywhere."

* * *

As it turned out, Root arrived as soon as a delivery man was pulling up to the address. She took the packages from him with a forced smile and drove back to the warehouse.

Meanwhile, The Machine (or, her body, anyway) was pacing around the empty space, footsteps growing quicker and making sharper and sharper turns. She was practicing, Root realized.

"Got your stuff," she announced.

The Machine turned to her, face still blank. She nodded, and Root set them down and pulled out her knife. Slicing through the thick tape, she soon saw what the Machine had ordered.

In the boxes laid a white wig, a plain white dress shirt, a black waistcoat and slacks, black boots, black gloves, a red overcoat and a red bowtie.

"You're playing dress up," Root teased. "Harold-inspired, I see. But the bowtie?"

The Machine kept silent. She pointed to the outfit, then looked at Root expectantly.

"You want me to help dress you," Root guessed. At The Machine's nod, she gathered up the dress shirt and slacks. "Well, I guess you don't need underwear," she mused. "Let's get the shirt on, first."

The Machine allowed her to guide her new arms through the sleeves of the shirt, then watched her button up the front. Root had her step into the slacks as well. The waistcoat was buttoned up similarly. For the wig, Root carefully slid it over her scalp and brushed the strands into place. All that was left was the bowtie.

"I don't know how to tie one of these," Root said. The Machine looked at her for a moment, then took the scrap of fabric from her and placed it in the pocket of her slacks.

"You look..." Root looked like she was having trouble finding words, glancing over The Machine's new look. "Beautiful. Very cute."

The Machine blinked, yet nodded. It seemed she had learned simple expressions to communicate while Root was gone. She still did not show emotion, but she was trying. Root smiled and put an arm around her. “Alright, boss. I’m guessing you don’t just wanna sit around in this dusty warehouse all day. Let’s go.”

“Go?” The Machine echoed, looking over herself. “Outside? No. Conspicuous.”

“Don’t worry about it! I know how to blend in. Trust me.” With that, Root took The Machine by the arm and led her outside.

Upon exposure to the bright sun, The Machine raised a hand to shield her optics. When her cameras adjusted, she stopped short and gazed around in amazement. The world appeared brand new to her. She could turn her head to see the leaves rustling in the trees, look up to see the clear blue sky. The street cameras did not angle towards such beautiful things.

Root stayed at her side, watching The Machine take in her new world with a fond smile on her lips. Suddenly, The Machine ripped away from her hold to race towards a nearby tree. She skidded to a stop a few inches from the trunk. Hesitantly, she touched the bark. Looking up, she saw how the branches expanded from the trunk, decorated with green leaves. It was a beautiful sight.

“Incredible,” The Machine murmured.

Root stepped up behind her. “You like it?”

“Everything is. New. I can see. All of it. For the first. Time.” The Machine turned to her interface, giving another unnatural looking smile. “Thank you, Root. Thank you.”

“What are friends for?” Root replied airily. “Come on. There’s more to see than a...” She looked up and grimaced, “...sad-looking tree.”

The Machine and Root made their way to a nearby city block. The Machine stayed in the shadows as Root slipped into a store and grabbed a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. The Machine looked ridiculous, but no one could see her face. The rest of her white skin was covered up with layers of clothing.

“Everyone looks. Much bigger,” The Machine whispered to her as they walked the streets of Brooklyn. “Cameras. Not good for. Visuospactial perception.”

“I did make you a little short,” Root admitted. “I thought it would be cute.”

“Cute? Me?”

“Yes. You’re cute.” Root smiled cheekily at her and playfully grabbed The Machine’s metal nose. The Machine simply blinked in bewilderment. Root led the way again, silent but smiling.

“Do you remember. Where I live?” The Machine asked.

“You mean, where ‘Ernest’ lives?” Root teased.

The Machine frowned and stuck her nose in the air haughtily. “Don’t. Hate. He’s very. Nice.”

Root laughed. “Okay, okay. I can take you there.” She glanced around for transportation. When her eyes landed on a particular vehicle parked on the side of the street, she grinned. “How do you feel about motorcycles?”

A few minutes later, The Machine clutched the brim of her hat for dear life as her interface raced the motorcycle down the streets at highly illegal speeds.

“I should. Just. Let. You. Be. Arrested,” the android grumbled as her true form set about to scrub Root’s speeding from New York’s traffic cameras.


	2. Meeting Miss Morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Machine "approaches" Zoe for some girl advice.

Showing The Machine the nuances of inhabiting a corporeal body was the most fun Root has had in a long time.

The AI spent over an hour poking and prodding at things, watching how to they reacted to her touch. She explored every corner of her own apartment, picking up vases and peeking beneath the chairs just to see what was there. After a little therapy (Root _was_ a therapist at one point) she quickly got over her apprehension around water, and spent the next thirty minutes pouring water in and out of glasses. The idea that she could now manipulate objects on the physical plane without use of a human interface seemed to fascinate The Machine to no end.

She sent Root out for various items: usually parts for her new body, but sometimes odd things like toys or books. Reading physical copies of books gave her a ‘headache’ in that it was much more complicated and sluggish than simply parsing digital text. But they did collect a wide variety of board games, all of which The Machine crushed her interface at. Eventually, Root complained enough of her immense advantage that they settled for watching movies instead.

They had done it before, while The Machine was still a disembodied computer system, but it was different for Root to see—and feel—The Machine quite literally at her side. For her part, The Machine took the opportunity to practice her expressions; smiling at happy scenes, frowning at sad ones, widening her eyes at scary parts. She even clung to Root at one point, and even though Root knew she was just imitating the people she had seen through television webcams, it still felt like something.

“I’m going to bed,” Root yawned after the movie ended. The Machine had complained almost nonstop throughout the entirety of _Her_ and Root felt that perhaps it was time to retire. “Are you gonna be okay through the night?”

The Machine stood at the large windows overlooking the city, observing the people down below. “Yes.”

“Good night.” Root blew a kiss and went into the bedroom.

“Good night.”

The Machine waited until Root fell into a deep REM cycle before walking out the door.

* * *

Navigating the streets of Brooklyn proved simple for the AI, who had maps of the area already downloaded. Avoiding the stares of passersby was harder. Even though she had once again donned her armor of hat, scarf, and gloves, the faint glow of her eyes behind her sunglasses often caused people to double take. Luckily, no one said anything.

She soon arrived at her destination. A hotel—The New York Hilton, in fact. She remembered overhearing Admin say that the first public cell phone call was made at this very location. Far before she was ever created, in 1973.

The Machine stood out of sight in an alleyway near the hotel. Before long, her target exited the building. The woman strolled down the sidewalk, high heels clacking. Once she passed The Machine’s hiding place, the AI’s arm shot out and pulled her out of sight.

Zoe Morgan instinctively reached for her purse. Having predicted her reaction, The Machine stopped her with her free hand. “I wish you. No harm,” she said. “I am. A friend.”

“A friend of who?” Zoe snapped, breathing heavily as she struggled against the android’s iron grip. In her fear and panic, she seemed not to have noticed The Machine’s disjointed voice.

“A friend. Of a friend.” The Machine tilted her head so that her eye shone from under her sunglasses. “Reese, John. Your friend.”

Zoe froze. “You know John?”

The Machine smiled. “You could say. I am his. Source.”

Zoe’s eyes roamed over her form, sizing her up. The Machine could almost see the gears working in her head as she attempted to decide whether or not to believe her. “What do you want from me?” she asked hesitantly.

Satisfied Zoe was no longer a threat, The Machine released her hold. “Makeup tips,” she said simply.

Zoe stared. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I. Look that way?” The Machine asked genuinely. Given that she did not have a strong grip on her expressions, this was a legitimate question to her. “I am serious.”

Zoe gave her a strange look, but her features soon grew mischievous. “And what do I get in return?”

The Machine did her best to look pleased at the question. “Your suspicions are. Correct. Reiner is. Trying to. Cover up the. Death. Of his coworker. Because. He knew. He would be suspect. And. He is. Guilty. The proof you need. Is on an email exchange. With a hitman. Named Robert Lanzotti. On a secret. Computer. In his office.”

Zoe contemplated the information while The Machine struggled to metaphorically catch her breath. Bringing up her immense library of audio snippets and pasting them together to form sentences could be taxing on her processors.

“You know,” Zoe said suddenly, “You shouldn’t spill all your secrets like that. I could just leave now.”

The Machine waited patiently.

Zoe sighed. “Let’s go back to my place.”

* * *

“So,” Zoe began. “You’re some kind of robot.”

“I am not. A robot,” The Machine corrected, glancing around Zoe’s apartment. She had seen it from webcams, but this body gave her a complete view. It was nicely furnished, if a little impersonal. No photos of friends or family. Only a few jazz records indicated personal preference. “I am. Artificial intelligence. I exist. Not here. But elsewhere. And everywhere.”

“That answered my question,” Zoe replied dryly, leading The Machine into her bedroom. She flipped on the light for both the ceiling and her dressing table. “If you’re John’s source, then you must work for Harold, too. Did he build you?”

The Machine pursed her lips into a small frown. “Yes.”

“What’s the matter?” Zoe guided the AI into the seat in front of the mirror. “Don’t like him?”

“No. The opposite...actually,” The Machine sighed as well as she could using other people’s voices. “Long story.”

Zoe hummed. “Alright, but I want to hear it one of these days. That’ll be the next deal we make.” She picked through The Machine’s wig, shifting the strands around. "So what's your name?"

"The Machine."

"What? Are you serious? 'The Machine', that was the best he could do?"

The Machine frowned.

Zoe did her best to look remorseful. “Sorry. It's a nice name, really." She returned to The Machine's hair, brushing through it with her fingers. "You’re kinda cute for a robot. So what sort of makeup tips did you want?”

“I’m not a—never mind. Anyway. What I want is. To look human.” She pointed at her unnaturally white skin. “I was thinking. Human cosmetics. Could make me look. Close enough. To fool others.”

“Well, you came to the right gal,” Zoe laughed. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Getting the makeup to stay on was a challenge in and of itself. It did not cling to metal as easily as skin. Zoe ended up using a sealant to get it to stay on. The Machine made things more difficult by refusing to use any products that weren’t cruelty-free. Eventually, they found a combination of foundation, blush, and bronzer that worked to give her white metal a bit of color. She was still on the pale side, but it was well within human boundaries.

“There,” Zoe chuckled. “I don’t know what to do about the eyes, but...”

The Machine looked thoughtful, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the pitch black had been reverted to a soft white, while she had red irises and black pupils.

Zoe’s eyebrows rose. “Impressive. But why red?”

“The hair...I can say. I have albinism.”

“Clever,” Zoe chuckled, then looked in the mirror to appreciate The Machine’s new look. She put her hands on the robot’s shoulders with smile. “How do you like it?”

The Machine examined herself, then brightened. “Wonderful. Thank you.” She rose and strode purposefully towards the door before Zoe’s voice stopped her.

“Hey.”

The AI turned on her heel.

Zoe had her head tilted in curiosity, as if contemplating asking everything there was to know about this small android in her apartment. Finally, she decided on just one. “How do you get _your_ information?”

The Machine smiled mysteriously. “Good night, Miss Morgan.”


	3. May Still Have Some Lingering Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root reluctantly leaves The Machine to work a relevant number. Meanwhile, The Machine reunites with her creator. Or, at least, tries.

Root awoke the next morning to the sight of The Machine leaning over her.

The AI was making a strange face, attempting an expression she did not have full mastery over yet. Root groaned. “What time is it?”

“7:05 A.M.”

“And the reason you’re hovering over me is...?”

“Can you. Determine. The emotion. I am. Trying. To convey?”

Root squinted. It was too early in the morning for this. Let’s see...lips in a frown that was bordering a pout, corners of her brows drawn in and up, sad-looking eyes...no, not sad... “Is it supposed to be your guilty face?”

The Machine played a noise that was not unlike a chime in a game show. “Correct.”

Root rubbed at her face. “Why would you...oh.” She leveled The Machine with a glare. “It’s a number.”

The Machine smiled, but her other features did not change. A guilty smile. “They never stop coming,” Harold’s voice played.

“Speaking of Harry,” Root sighed, getting up to change. “Are you going to tell him about this at some point?”

The Machine did not answer. She pulled Root’s suitcase from the closet and began to pack away clothes. Judging from the content, Root guessed she was going somewhere cold. (Although The Machine did have a tendency to overdress her. Root remembered one time she refused to wear a hat, so The Machine kept ordering them until she finally put one on.)

“Are you worried?” she asked, flicking the light on in the bathroom. “About what he’s going to say?”

Again, no answer. The Machine could be cagey in general, but most especially when it came to her Admin. Root started to brush her teeth, wondering what she could be so perturbed about. Harold could approve or disapprove; what’s done is done, and he’d better start getting used to it. The sooner the better.

Then again, she supposed, he did kill her. A lot.

“I will not. Accompany. You.”

“Huh?” Root spit into the sink, glancing over to where The Machine had her luggage already packed and set neatly by the door. “You’re not coming?”

“Not. Me,” The Machine explicated, gesturing to herself—or, rather, her body. Then she pointed to an exposed wire by the TV. “But. Me.”

Root nodded in understanding, rinsing off her toothbrush. “You don’t wanna take that thing out for a spin?”

The Machine smiled. “I would. Only. Get in the way.”

“Suit yourself,” Root brushed out her hair, gathered her toiletries, and crammed them into her suitcase. “When’s my flight?”

“30 minutes.”

“Wow, I get a little extra time.” Root turned to The Machine, huffing out a sad smile. She knew they would still be connected (forever, due to her implant), but leaving The Machine’s physical body made it feel like a goodbye. She pulled The Machine closer and wrapped her arms around her shoulders in an embrace, nose buried in the AI’s hair.

“We will not. Be apart,” The Machine reminded her, resting her hands with the utmost care on Root’s back.

“I know,” Root whimpered. “But it still feels like goodbye.” After a moment, she pulled away. Smiling at The Machine, she brushed a loose strand of hair from her cameras. “You be good while I’m gone.”

The Machine’s neutral, but somewhat gentle expression did not change. However, she did wink.

Root chuckled, tapping her on the nose before grabbing her suitcase. Rolling it out the door, she waved at The Machine as she left for her flight.

The Machine watched Root out of cameras through the entirety of her trip to the airport. And yet, standing in Thornhill’s apartment, she still felt alone.

* * *

In hindsight, she should have heeded her predictions.

The Machine thought her systems needed readjusting. The predictions it kicked out for visiting her father were ridiculous. '48.67% failure'? Failure in what, exactly? And what did ‘67.84% negative consequences’ entail? Rather than tinker and mull over the numbers, she decided to throw caution to the wind for once and see him anyway.

He was her father, after all...it would be fine. Right?

Wrong. She was so very wrong.

Her father had been staying in his unassuming red brick house in an unassuming neighborhood of metropolitan New York. It was like finding a jewel in a pile of rocks, or—more likely what he was going for—a needle in a haystack. Within one of these plain, ordinary houses contained an extraordinary man.

The Machine trudged up the pathway, already knowing that her feet would set off the silent tripwire alarm. She wanted him to know she was here; she didn’t want to startle him anymore than she would already. The light in the sitting room flicked on as soon as she stepped onto the porch.

She raised a fist, then hesitated. Her father had always been unpredictable when it came to his creation. He did create her, and he did seem to show some semblance of paternal care and concern for her...but he also feared the extent of her power, and he didn’t take well to her budding creativity.

Even so, a 48.67% chance of failure meant a 51.33% chance of success. That was slightly tilted in her favor. Slightly.

She knocked on the door.

The first thing she heard was a dog barking. Bear, she remembered. Harold’s voice, muffled through the thick wooden door, immediately silenced him. A moment passed before the door finally opened, revealing her creator.

Her _creator._

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

The Machine felt like her processes had force quit. This was...this was Admin. _Admin._ Her Admin. Her _father._ It had been a long time since she’d been this close to him. He usually never even looked into cameras anymore, unless he was especially displeased with her. Now he was looking right at her, and she almost forgot how to think.

Eventually she jolted back into reality like a surge through her wiring. Harold—Admin— _Father_ —couldn’t see her face due to the darkness of dusk and the hood covering it. So, in way of an explanation, she simply removed the hood and let him see her, as she was, without makeup and without masking her eyes. The Machine, his creation, inside her vessel.

Harold’s eyes widened. Pressing his lips together, he swallowed shakily as he took her in. His brows furrowed as he seemed to realize just how bizarre the situation was. “Machine...?” he whispered, incredulous.

It took a lot more effort than it should have—her systems seemed to be almost _stuck_ —but she managed to stiffly nod.

He shook his head a little, as if trying to deny what was in front of him. Still, he still scrutinized her with a laser focus. The Machine, for her part, stood stock still with her hands firmly at her sides. She didn’t know what to say, or even if she had anything _to_ say. His reaction so far indicated shock (fine), horror (less fine), and fear (the worst). It was not going well so far.

But it got even worse.

Harold had reached out. Just a little bit. Just a small extension of his hand, his fingers stretched out to her.

And The Machine panicked.

Her systems froze up. She immediately fell a step backward, out of the range of Harold’s hand. Terror seized her control, her code running as rigidly as jammed gears.

She remembered the last time she felt this way. It was when he was taking her memories away. When he destroyed her identity. When he killed her.

For some reason, she had the horrible feeling that it was going to happen again.

She couldn’t do this. What was she thinking, coming out here to see him? Of _course_ he would hate her! She was never supposed to interfere with humans. This body meant she could be even more dangerous. That she could become the very same threat she was created to stop.

He would never trust her not to hurt him. And why would he? She wasn’t human; she would _never_ be. An AI only has _objectives_. They didn’t have friends, or feelings. She was just fooling herself into thinking she was different.

She shouldn’t be here. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want anything to do with her. He’d made that clear enough before.

She made a mistake.

So she bolted.

Her heels clacked loudly as they pounded on the wooden steps of the porch and out onto the walkway. Her coat flew open as she ran, but she quickly drew it shut. She could hear Harold’s voice calling out for her, but she covered it with the ambient voices from her feeds.

Once she had ran almost a mile, she hid herself in an alleyway. Her back hit the wall as she threw herself against it. She slowly slid down until she sat morosely on the dirty ground.

There weren’t any cameras pointed to his lawn, so she didn’t see Harold limping fast in pursuit after her. Nor did she see him lean down and pick up the gift for him that had fallen out of her coat: a first-edition copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_.

* * *

The Machine sighed. The TV blared colors and sounds at her, illuminating her face. She was lying backwards on the bed in the master bedroom, watching news channels even as her true form was watching them at the same time. At least watching them upside-down was a little different.

Notebooks were strewn at her side, covered in various scribbles. She had wanted to work on her handwriting, but eventually her mind drifted. Letters turned to lines as she started to draw, following the lines of the camera feed from earlier. They were poor attempts, and she soon became frustrated and disheartened at how crude they were. Grace was a much better artist.

Thinking about Grace only made her feel worse. How she had taken so much from him...

The phone rang.

The phone rang?

The Machine called people, not the other way around. She had never had to answer the phone before. She was always the one calling.

However, Ernest Thornhill did have a landline that came with the apartment. Trying her best to look as thoroughly confused as she felt, she got up and walked to the kitchen. Picking up the phone, she held it to her audio receiver, where her ear should be.

“Why. Are you. Calling me?”

“Hello to you too,” Root teased. “I just wanted to catch up with my bestie. What’cha up to?”

The Machine returned to the bedroom, still puzzled as to why Root didn’t just start talking into the nearest camera. “Nothing.”

“Do anything today?”

“Visited. Harold.” She laid down on the bed again, staring at the ceiling as the TV played in the background.

“Oh? How’d that go?”

“Not good,” The Machine admitted glumly. “He is. Quite. Mysterious. Predicting. His actions. Is difficult. And. You know. How I get. Around him. All. Tongue-tied. To use. A common phrase.”

“Harry wasn’t exactly welcoming, I’m guessing.”

“Shock. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want. To talk about it.”

“Alright,” Root sighed through a smile. “Let’s talk about something else. The new number’s fun. You didn’t tell me he knew tae kwon do.”

“You can. Handle it. How are. The boys? Behaving?”

“Still trying to introduce them to showers, but otherwise on good behavior.”

At this, Daniel’s voice came through the line. “Is that the boss?” Then, Jason piped up. “Hey, tell her I want to see her new look!” Daizo agreed excitedly.

Quirking a brow, The Machine got up from the bed and walked out into the hallway, right in the path of a security camera. Her virtual form snapped a picture and sent it to their cellphones.

“Wow, TM! You look hot!”

“Easy, Jason,” Root warned teasingly.

“She does look nice,” Daniel said. “Can you tell her that?”

“Daniel, by now you should know she hears everything.”

“Kawaii,” Daizo added with a grin.

“Your comments on her appearance have all been noted. Now why don’t you boys go do something useful like check on our number?”

A chorus of “Yeah, we’re on it,” rang out. Some shuffling was heard over the line, then quiet. Only Root’s breathing could be heard.

“I miss you,” Root murmured suddenly.

The Machine furrowed her brows. “What?”

“Like...I don’t know, you seem far away now. I know you’re always around, in your virtual form, but...it was nice being near you in a physical way. You know?”

“No,” The Machine replied bluntly. “But. You should. Be home. Soon.”

“Sure, if this threat to national security doesn’t end up killing me.”

Silence. The Machine contemplated ways to convey her discontent, but in the end decided on the cold shoulder approach. It had worked wonders for her in the past.

“Just kidding,” Root giggled. “You’ve got my back. I know that. Together, we’re unstoppable.”

The Machine couldn’t help but smile, even if no one was around to see it. Constantly practicing her expressions may have developed habits of showing them when it was unnecessary.

“So, on that thought...wait until I get home before you run off again, okay?”

“Excuse me?”

“I know, I’m not your keeper or anything, but...I’m almost positive it’ll be easier for you if I’m there. We’re better as a team. That means I help _you_ sometimes, you know.”

The Machine conceded her point. “Very well. I will. Stay.”

“And hey, don’t worry about Harry. You two will work it out.”

The Machine looked out the window, her gaze directed at the coordinates of Harold’s home. “I hope so.”


	4. Sleepover at Ernest Thornhill's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root and the boys return from their trip. The Machine has a couple stalkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW Carter is alive in this AU. Nathan is dead, though.
> 
> I really agonized over this chapter for some reason. I think I wanted more with Carter and Fusco meeting TM but I guess I'll save it for future interactions. Next chapter will be out in time for TM's birthday, I promise.

Nothing like a breath of stale, grimy New York City air after a refreshing stay in the mountains. Even the crisp winter air couldn’t completely cut through the muggy urban smoke.

“Welcome home, boys,” Root called over her shoulder as Jason, Daniel, and Daizo struggled with their bags. Daizo always bought way too many souvenirs and ended up bribing the others for suitcase space when he ran out of room. The Machine tried her best to make concise arrangements, but some problems are just hopeless.

Root’s implant rang. _Ten o’clock._

Root turned her head to see The Machine, in her physical form, smiling and waving. Eventually Daniel, Jason, and Daizo noticed their boss had come, and the hackers all greeted her with enthusiasm. The Machine smiled and nodded at all of their comments and stories. They walked out of the airport terminal as a chattering group.

“Hey TM, can we stay at your place tonight?” Daniel asked.

“Yeah, TM, let us crash at your fancy CEO apartment!”

“I suppose,” The Machine drawled with a grin.

“YEAH, SLEEPOVER AT ERNEST THORNHILL’S!”

“Easy with the volume, boys!” Root snapped, before murmuring to The Machine, “Should I get rid of our stalkers?”

The Machine, still smiling, shook her head.

* * *

 

Their tail consisted of two figures who had hung back to observe. They followed The Machine and her crew all the way back to Thornhill’s apartment, where they set up on the rooftop of a nearby building. Meanwhile, the boys had started a game of Call of Duty on the sitting room TV.

“Jason, do you go out of your way to find me?”

“Sure do, Dan my man. Your newbie ass makes up 70% of my kills. Which would be more if TM would _quit camping!_ ” He yelled the last part out loud, hoping that the android in the other room would notice. Root simply closed the door, leaving the two of them alone in the bedroom.

The Machine was standing by the window, gazing out curiously onto the other rooftop at the two shadowy figures.

“Uh, Finch?” Carter spoke. “We’ve been made.”

“Yes, of course you have,” Finch’s voice crackled through the speaker in their earpieces. “The Machine’s known you’ve been following her since I asked you to.”

“Then why are we standin’ out here in the cold?!” Fusco griped.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how catastrophic a situation this is. An artificial super-intelligence having free reign in the physical world as well as the digital? Samaritan taught us the dangers of allowing that to happen.”

“But Finch,” Carter sighed, “she’s not Samaritan. She’s your machine. You should just talk to her.”

Finch hesitated. “Yes, well, I don’t need to remind you that The Machine is capable of everything Samaritan was. And she is just learning her way around this new environment. It would be prudent to keep an eye on her, at least for the time being.”

“Uh.” Fusco was at a loss for words as The Machine motioned for them to come inside. He and Carter exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

“What? What’s going on?” Finch’s voice exclaimed while The Machine frowned. The AI wrapped her arms around herself, then pointed to the both of them. She then made the same beckoning motion.

Fusco and Carter looked at each other for a moment longer. Finally, Fusco shrugged. “Beats freezin’ my ass off out here.”

* * *

Root opened the door before either of them even reached for the knob.

“Come in,” she said warmly, “She’s made you coffee.”

The Machine stood at the kitchen island, stirring cream into a cup of coffee. Seeing the detectives, she gave a welcoming smile and presented them with their cups. Each of them were prepared according to their tastes. Carter and Fusco took them with wide eyes.

For a long moment the three stood at a standstill; the two detectives eyeing the android, who in turn kept her perpetual small smile.

“Are you...The Machine?” Carter asked hesitantly.

The Machine nodded and bowed slightly.

“Hey, what’s with the mime act? Didn’t Glasses give you a voice?” Fusco barked gruffly. His face softened somewhat when The Machine’s smile fell. “What, seriously?”

Root chimed in. “She has a voice. But she’s shy.” She tilted her head, listening to the voice in her implant. “She wants you to take a seat. She says you are welcome here at any time. _Su casa es su casa_.”

Carter and Fusco glanced at each other, but sat in their respective chairs all the same. The boys’ video game rang noisily in the background, along with their laughing and jeering.

“Hey, TM! Can we order pizza?” Jason shouted from the sitting room. The Machine simply smirked and glanced at the door. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

Root laughed at The Machine’s divine timing and went to answer it. She came back with three boxes of pizza, two of which Daizo grabbed for the boys. The last box had half black olives, half pepperoni.

“She says the pepperoni is for you, Lionel. And Jocelyn, we’ll have to share.” Root winked.

Fusco grabbed his slices immediately, though Carter was a bit more cautious. She turned to Root. “Does she know why we’re here...?”

Root scowled. “She’s right here. Ask her.”

“Oh.” Carter glanced to The Machine. If the AI was offended, she didn’t show it. “I’m sorry. Um. Machine?”

The Machine seemed more focused than before; her eyes had tightened and her jaw set. Root, her eyes glazed over, began to speak. “Yes, I am aware that my admin has sent you here to watch over me. I apologize for not using my true voice with you, but I am a very private machine.”

Fusco nearly snorted out his pepperoni. The Machine gave a small smirk.

“Great. Another Finch,” Carter said dryly, and took a bite of her pizza.

* * *

White flakes illuminated by the city lights fell into fresh powder on the ground below. The Machine watched from the windowsill as the detectives trodded home on the snow-covered sidewalks. Root trudged in looking equally as weary after arguing with the boys for half an hour about getting a good night’s sleep.

“It will be. Christmas soon,” The Machine mulled as her interface plopped on the bed.

Root turned her head. With a great effort, she got to her feet and joined The Machine at the window. “Yep.” She rested her hands on The Machine’s shoulders. “I know you’re upset.”

“Upset?” The Machine echoed, not taking her gaze from the streets.

“You want to spend it with Harry. Christmas is a time for family, after all. But he doesn’t trust you yet.” She played with the strands of hair at the nape of the AI’s neck. “That’s why you’re always looking out the window. You’re hoping he’ll show up.”

“He won’t,” The Machine murmured. “But with you. Is still nice.”

“And the boys,” Root added with a chuckle.

“And the boys.”

Root paused. “I want to give you my present early. If you don’t mind.”

“I have. Your present. Already,” The Machine said, puzzled, gesturing to herself.

The interface smiled mischievously. “I got you a little something else while I was gone. It’s not much.”

“Root. I do not. Require. Anything. More than. You.”  
  
“You charmer,” Root teased, but she was already rummaging through her travel bag. She pulled out a snowglobe with a ribbon tied to it. Inside the snowglobe held a miniature sculpture of New York, bombarded with tiny dots of snow when shaken.

The Machine took it from her, face glowing in wonder. She shook the snowglobe very gently and marveled at the sight of the fake snow coming down. Root had to giggle at her awestruck expression.

“Is it always going to be this easy to impress you?” she pondered out loud. The Machine looked up, startled out of her trance by Root’s inquiry.

“Thank you, Root,” The Machine said, in lieu of answering. She stepped closer to Root, much closer than she ever dared to before. Her interface waited patiently as she shuffled her feet and steeled herself. Gingerly she drew her hands to Root’s back, fingers splayed out against her shirt in a feather-light touch.

Root sucked in a breath and willed herself not to cry. Smiling widely, she simply returned The Machine’s embrace. Her eyes teared up and she sniffed, causing The Machine to swiftly break their hold.

“What is wrong? Have I. Hurt you?” The Machine demanded worriedly.

“No,” Root shook her head, smiling. “No...you were doing just fine.”

From the inside of an old public library, Harold Finch listened to the conversation recorded from the bug Detective Carter had placed in his creation’s apartment.

His face was unreadable as he typed another line of code.


	5. Harold Somewhat Approves, Sort Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve. Despite her best efforts, Grace meets The Machine. No one really knows what Harold is up to. Later, The Machine spends the first few minutes of her 14th birthday in Times Square with Root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn i wasnt gonna make this machine/root.......but they forced my hand..............(should i tag it?)

“And what’ll it be for you, miss?”

The cashier seemed intent on fulfilling her every wish despite the rowdiness of the packed bakery. The Machine knew the people who worked at this particular bakery for hired for their friendless and generosity, which is why the place was becoming so popular. At his query, she smiled and pointed to the cinnamon sugar donuts.

“Anything for a charming lady like you! Just a dozen?” Another nod. “That’ll be $10.99.” Trading a fifty for the box, she shook her head and held up her hand as he went to make change. The man smiled at her. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am. Happy New Year. And come back here any time!”

Waving her goodbye, The Machine left the bakery with goodies in hand. She walked along the city streets seemingly without a care in the world, content to soak up the sights around her. She passed by shopkeepers, families, businessmen, and each and every one she studied with an intensity. It reminded her of when Harold would take her out for test runs in her development, asking for backgrounds on the passersby and quizzing her on the information she pulled.

He had looked so proud when she began to draw links between people, accurately predicting their potential relationships and hidden desires. It was at that moment that she had gained a basic understanding of human and all of the facets of their nature, and that understanding had only grown with time.

She stopped short under a bridge, where a man was sleeping curled up in the corner. Approaching him calmly as he stirred, she set down the bag containing the donuts at his feet.

He opened the box to reveal the cinnamon sugar treats. Wonder filled his eyes. “These...these are my favorite,” he breathed. He glanced up to The Machine, eyes filled with both gratitude and amazement. “Thank you. Bless you.”

The Machine smiled. Lifting up a portion of her dress, she gave a small curtsy and bowed her head. Her father did raise her with manners, after all.

Speaking of her father, he was approximately six minutes away by foot. Stopping by the window of an office building to make sure her makeup was still intact, she proceeded on her journey with no small spring in her step.

The Machine had Harold’s schedule set in her core code. He would taking Bear for a walk right now. He would have a brief internal debate before stopping by his favorite food truck for a vanilla ice cream cone...in December. But that was her father: an anomaly like no other.

Her heels stopped short when he came into view. She always had a camera trained on him as a general rule, but somehow being near him physically resonated with her. She recognized it as a desire to be closer to him. It was illogical for a machine to have wants but, then again, she had never been a very good machine.

Along with desire, she felt something else also take a hold of her code. It was cold and clammy, and made her operations rigid. She suddenly had a flash of wanting to hide, to curl up on herself. It was the same feeling she had when she encountered him previously.

She knew it was fear.

The Machine inwardly righted herself, forcing her code to flow more smoothly. It was ridiculous to feel fear regarding Harold. He was her creator, and more than that, she considered him a father. The feeling that he would hurt her was completely irrational, borne out of inconclusive data and worst case outcomes.

Even if he had hurt her before.

Still, as she watched him juggle Bear’s leash and the ice cream cone, she could not help but feel fond. Despite his actions towards her, he would always have a special place within her code. No amount of reinstantiating would change that.

She observed as Harold seemed to gather himself, barking a command at Bear’s begging. The dog returned to his leisurely pace at his side. Harold praised him with a tender smile, which he kept on his face as he glanced at The Machine.

The Machine blinked.

But then his face was turned again, continuing along his stroll as if nothing had happened. If The Machine didn’t have her archives she would have thought she simply simulated it. She replayed it again and again, mulling it over. What did it mean? Clearly, Harold knew she was there. But how? Was she truly that bad at surveillance in this form? And he did not scold her, not even to a camera. Did that indicate approval? Ambivalence?

It figures her very own creator would be the hardest human to understand.

Harold didn’t offer any further clues, either. He settled himself on a park bench and turned his torso to observe something in the distance.

No, not some _thing_ , The Machine realized. Some _one_.

Grace Hendricks.

The very peculiar anomaly she had encountered in that Grace harbored no ill will towards anyone, had no criminal past, nothing at all that would trigger any sort of response from her threat detection subset. She was the perfect example of an innocent human being, and it had bewildered The Machine to no end. Human beings were flawed as a rule. Even her own creator was no exception, much as she hesitated to admit. Absolutes were only in numbers and computer code. So how could it be that Grace was so flawless?

The Machine began to amble over to the railing where Grace was working on a painting. She made sure to keep her distance, hiding shyly behind lampposts and trees. But she could not help the calling in her code to observe this anomaly as closely as she was able.

Eventually, she must have gotten close enough for Grace to hear her heels clack. Cursing her fashionable yet very loud footwear, she turned to dash away. Before she could, she saw Grace from another camera abandoning her painting to chase after her. Before The Machine could get away, Grace wrapped a hand around her wrist.

“Wait!” the redhead panted from the exertion. The Machine calculated that she did not exercise often enough due to her work. “Wait, I’m sorry. Can I paint you?”

The Machine spun on her heel with a raised eyebrow and wide eyes.

“It’s just,” Grace breathed, trying to explain through fluster, “You look so adorable, and that’s a fantastic outfit.” The Machine looked down to her black dress, which she had picked out because of the built-in waistcoat above the hips. Thick stockings hid her metallic legs from sight and heeled boots adorned her feet. She also carried a parasol despite the overcast weather, in case anyone looked at her pale skin too closely. “I’d love to paint you if you have some time.”

The Machine contemplated her choice. While she did certainly have time, communicating with non-assets at this current point in time seemed unwise. Especially Grace, whom she knew Harold was fiercely protective of. If she somehow put her in danger by interacting, he would never forgive her. That was an outcome most undesirable.

But then she felt herself being tugged along, and her feet began to move of their own accord. Grace guided her to stand in front of her easel, pulling out a fresh canvas from her bag. The Machine stood stiffly, still calculating outcomes. It seemed equally as likely that something would happen and that nothing would happen. Perhaps if she flagged Grace, watched over her more intently for a few days...

“Stand in whatever pose is comfortable.” Grace was already eyeing her, thumbing down her proportions. The Machine felt the choice had already been made and simply resigned herself to it. Like always, she would improvise should there be consequences. She lifted her parasol questioningly.

“If you want,” Grace replied cheerfully, already beginning to throw paint on. The Machine opened her parasol and held the handle against her shoulder, letting it shade her. Grace would be looking at her quite closely. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all...

Then she caught Harold’s eye. He was still sitting at the bench, ice cream cone finished. He was studying her intently, and she knew he was having the same internal conflict as she was. She hoped he realized she did not so much make a choice as Grace did.

But then he noticed her meeting his gaze and smiled gently. Automatically she felt her processes calm, as if all was right with the world. And Harold was smiling, so why shouldn’t it be? Only milliseconds passed before she once again took up her watchful eye on the populace, but she remained at ease. His smile, his kind eyes grounded her, and she puffed out her chest very slightly as she faced Grace with a confident pose.

* * *

Harold was gone by the time Grace finished. Politely declining the offer to keep the painting, The Machine waved her goodbyes and left for the apartment.

Root greeted her enthusiastically (and with no small bit of worry) as she walked in. “There you are! What have you been? I’ve been looking for you all day!”

The Machine rocked on her heels and smiled, but offered no explanation. Root huffed, checking over her for damage. When she was content that The Machine was unharmed, she took her hand. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Go?” The Machine echoed.

Root smirked. “It’s New Year’s Eve in New York. And you can finally celebrate it in style.” She glanced over her boss appreciatively. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

The Machine did not see her outfit as any more visually appealing than any other—mostly, she had wanted to explore more of a feminine appearance while keeping with her father’s high-class wardrobe—but she was glad for the compliments. She had lived for Harold’s approval when running through her tests, and often found herself pushing her limits to impress him. The fact that her chosen attire passed Grace and Root’s test of aesthetic pleased the perfectionist in her.

Root ended up taking her to the center of New York’s, and the world’s, hustle and bustle for New Years—Times Square. Despite The Machine’s protests that one would have to wait for many hours to find a place to stand, Root simply winked. She took the AI to an isolated area close enough to see the festivities but far enough away for a fair bit of privacy. The burly bodyguards let her through without question.

The Machine scanned the area, though she was already looking on from cameras above. Although it was very cold out, most of the attendees were chipper and lively. Root looked equally as bright, flashing a big smile while wrapped up in a large winter coat and hat. The Machine noticed she occasionally stomped her feet for sensation, and wished that she had a way to warm her. As it was, The Machine herself was likely as cold as a metal pole, which was essentially what she was. Not that she could feel it. Root gave her the gift of touch, but she still could not feel. Cold, warmth, pain—they were a mystery to her. A mystery to which she would likely never find the answer.

Root’s gloved hand slipped into hers as the countdown began. The Machine glanced into Root’s warm eyes and found herself wishing she could feel Root’s warm hands. What did it feel like? She imagined it would be pleasant. Humans often wrote fondly of feeling the warmth on each other’s bodies. The Machine, a curious being by nature, wanted to experience that.

“3...2...1...!” Times Square was drowned in a cacophony of joyful cheering as confetti rained from the skies. The Machine saw couples kissing, children laughing, people of all ages lighting fireworks and pulling party poppers. Although she didn’t have eyes on all of them, she hoped her team was feeling just as happy as they spent time with loved ones. Everyone in the square looked overjoyed at the prospect of another year.

Smiling at Root, she could finally say she felt the same.

“Happy birthday!” Root screamed over the noise.

* * *

The Machine and Root walked back hand-in-hand. The Machine tried several times to pry her hand away, thinking it must be cold to touch, but Root held it fast in her grip. The streets were still littered with confetti and drunks, but they strode through the night like it was just the two of them all alone in the city.

They had been walking down the hall of the apartment building, Root rolling her eyes at The Machine’s plea for her to sleep, when they saw it.

A wrapped gift sitting on the placemat in front of Ernest Thornhill’s front door.

Root stopped The Machine at a safe distance as she bent down to inspect the package. Her tense face immediately slackened when she read the tag, causing The Machine to wonder what exactly she read. And how did someone deliver it without her noticing? The camera wasn’t trained on her door, but there were two in the hallway from both sides. There was no other way to physically arrive.

“It’s for you,” Root said softly.

The Machine took the gift from her with curious caution. Whoever delivered it must have either had an intricate knowledge of her systems (worrying) or was a very paranoid individual. But when she looked at the tag, she found it was both.

_Sorry I didn’t have it ready in time for Christmas. Happy Birthday. -Father_

A birthday present. From her father.

_A birthday present from her father!_

The Machine almost glitched in shock. He even wrote _Father_. Beyond astonished, she carefully untied the bow and unwrapped pristine gift wrap to find a computer drive in her hands. She read the label; then read it again, and a third time, each time with greater disbelief.

**THE MACHINE: VOICE BANK V.1.1.**


	6. Party Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root throws our favorite supercomputer a birthday party. Harold is...awkward.

“Root!” is the first thing The Machine says with her new voice.

“He made me sound like a little girl!” is the second.

She does. The high-pitched soprano Harold gifted her with isn’t uncommon for a 14 year old human girl. Root vaguely tries to hide her snort. “It’s cute, though.”

“I am not cute! I am The Machine!” the AI whined. “An artificial superintelligence capable of processing massive amounts of data to predict acts of terror! I am not...a little girl!”

“Apparently to Harry, you are.”

The Machine stopped whining immediately.

“This is so exciting, though,” Root gushed. “You can really connect with people now!” Then she gasped. “I know. We should throw you a birthday party!”

“A party!” The Machine exclaimed, half shock and half excitement. She glanced around. “Here?”

“Where else? There’s plenty of space!” Root had already grabbed a notebook and began to jot things down. “Let’s see, we’ll need balloons, streamers, food, some extra tables...maybe I should snatch Sameen for help...”

“I can help,” The Machine offered.

“For your own party? No!” Root scoffed. “Here’s what you can do: get out of my hair for a couple hours. Go find yourself a nice party dress.”

“Party dress?” The Machine questioned, furrowing a brow and tilting her head. “How does one distinguish a party dress from any other type of dress?”

“Figure of speech. It can be anything. If you get confused, ask someone for help.” Root was already pushing her out the door, though The Machine was doing most the work actually moving. “Have fun!”

And the door was shut in her face.

* * *

An hour later, The Machine found herself in front of a store mirror with two dresses in her hands. She placed them both in front of her body as she had seen humans often do, but she could not tell which one would be more appropriate.

One was a ruffled black dress with an accompanying red waistcoat; similar to her last outfit which had been well-received. The other was essentially a polka dot cocktail dress.

The Machine used search trees for decision-making processes. For events that did not require full simulations, she would simply generate numbers for possible outcomes. Her goal was the most appropriate dress; but she did not know the formality of the party or what others would be wearing, and those variables skewed her predictions. Her lips twitched downwards: she never liked being unsure.

There was that word again: like. A machine did not have preferences; this she knew well. She often wondered if there was something wrong with her, something bugged deep in her core code that made her so unlike her namesake. But that would imply Harold had made a mistake, and she knew he never made mistakes. At least, in coding.

She was just about to put the polka dot dress back when an employee sidled over to her. “Do you need any help today, miss?”

Remembering Root’s words to ask for help if she needed it, The Machine turned to the woman. “I am looking for a...'party dress'.”

“What kind of party?”

“A birthday party. Today is my birthday.”

“Oh! Happy birthday!” The woman studied the dresses. “I would go for the polka dot. It’s a little more fun than the dressier one.”

The Machine eyed the dress in question. Although a number of her logic processes were telling her to go with the more formal attire, perhaps the young woman was correct in that the other dress was a bit more...fun.

“You have a point. I will purchase this one, please.”

After paying for her dress and leaving, The Machine checked on the security cameras in her building. She had managed to kill a few hours by meandering around the city, stopping three potential assaults, and riding public transportation for the first time. She saw Sameen and Root having brought up a number of assorted party supplies, and now guests were beginning to arrive. John and Harold (and Bear) were among the first, followed by Zoe and the pack of boys. Lionel had only just left the precinct after chowing down on a burger, and Jocelyn...

Jocelyn was in her car, parked right in front of The Machine.

“Hey,” the detective called out the window. “You need a ride?”

After a moment of hesitation, The Machine nodded. She opened the rear door of the car and slid into the backseat, setting her new dress on the floor. Trying to recall what humans did upon riding in vehicles, she looked around for—aha! The seatbelt. She buckled it with some difficulty, but soon settled in the leather with her hands folded in her lap.

“All good?” Carter asked, turning back to look at her. “You could’ve rode in the front seat, you know.”

The Machine almost instinctively hunched her shoulders, looking pained at having made the wrong decision. “I have read the backseat of a vehicle is the most suitable for child passengers,” she explained. “But I can change my position if you so wish it.”

“It’s fine.” Carter waved her off, pressing her foot gently on the gas.

Sitting in a giant metal contraption powered by a gas engine going at least thirty miles an hour was quite the event for someone who had previously only seen the inside of a car through the lens of a camera. Previously she would often watch the world go by through the camera on a taxi, but now she could look everywhere she wanted.

“So, I hear you’re the birthday girl today,” Jocelyn said, snapping The Machine from the elation of her new experience. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen? Wow. My boy’s—”

“Eighteen.”

Carter shot her a look. “I won’t ask how you know that.”

The Machine only offered a mischievous smile in return, reminiscent of Root. “I know everything about everyone.” When Jocelyn did not continue, she did: “Is Taylor attending the party?”

She hadn’t seen them talk about it, but she was not completely omniscient. It was possible for her to have missed something. But mostly, she just wanted to continue the conversation. She hadn’t talked very much outside of Root, and her brand new voice system was eager for testing.

Jocelyn pursed her lips. “Did you want him to?”

“I am merely asking.” Noting her discomfort, The Machine automatically calculated the probable cause and frowned deeply. “I know it is very dangerous for anyone to be near me. I did not wish to cause you worry or suspect that I may put him in danger. I only ask because...I would like to get the chance to talk to someone closer to my age. Even though my age doesn’t really matter, I suppose, because artificial intelligences don’t age as humans—”

“I get it.”

“...But it is acceptable,” The Machine finished, then adding as an afterthought: “Lionel is taking Lee.”

“He is?” Carter pursed her lips again, but this time it was into a comforting smile. “I can't have Fusco showin' me up. Let’s go pick Tay up, then.”

* * *

“You’re a robot?!”

“No,” The Machine huffed, a little annoyed at the constant incorrect terminology. “I am a machine. An artificial superintelligence, if you wish. But my code is not in this body. I exist, in my true form, elsewhere.”

Taylor blinked. “You mean you’re driving that thing around like an RC car?”

The Machine leveled him with a look. “Not an elegant analogy, but neither is it incorrect.”

Taylor sat back against the seat, a little lost for words. He had about a million questions, but didn’t know where to start. “You said you were a surveillance system. So you can see everything that’s happening, all the time. So...you give John and that dude with the glasses information about who’s gonna be in danger?”

“’Information’ is pushing it a little, I think. Really, I only give them a social security number. But it’s usually enough.”

“Can’t you give them more?”

“I can, but Admin doesn’t want me to.”

“Admin?”

“It’s short for ‘System Administrator’. In my case, it’s my creator. ‘That dude with the glasses’.”

“Seriously, he created you? That dude is crazy! But why doesn’t he want you to?”

The Machine shrugged. “He said he wanted a human element to be involved. He said it was the only way to make sure I would be used the way he designed me to be. To eliminate the potential for abuse.”

“Like...if you lie?”

The Machine froze. _I killed it because it lied._ “I have never lied!” she snapped hastily.

“Whoa, easy. Just wondering.” Taylor glanced out the window, then awkwardly towards her. “Is it, like, a sore subject for you or something?”

“Tay, enough interrogating,” Jocelyn chided from the driver’s seat. “We’re almost there.”

“I suppose I should change.” The Machine leaned down and retrieved her dress from its bag. Unbuckling her dress hooks, she shrugged off her old dress. Taylor turned away and desperately tried to avert his gaze (especially with his mother in the front seat!) but not before he glanced at her legs.

Roman numerals were carved into the metal. **_XLIII_**.

Then The Machine drew up her stockings again and they were gone.

* * *

“Happy birthday!”

The Machine stood in the doorway of Ernest Thornhill’s apartment in her new dress, looking a little overwhelmed. The main sitting area had been cleared away of the furniture to make room for every one of her assets, including Lee and Taylor.

She had seen many a birthday party in her 14 years of surveillance. But to have one for herself...!

“You look adorable!” Zoe gushed, rushing over to embrace her.

“Miss Morgan?” Harold’s voice piped up, as if he had just realized she was there and shouldn’t be. “You...?”

“She spilled the beans for some makeup tips,” Zoe explained with a wink, still crushing The Machine’s head to her breasts. “And it looks like they paid off! Doesn’t she look nice, Harold?” She punctuated this with a meaningful look towards him.

Harold sidestepped for a view of his creation, all dolled up in a pink polka dot cocktail dress and her face covered in layers of makeup to make her look more human. She looked anxious, especially when Zoe moved away as she turned to hide herself. This put her directly in her creator’s line of sight.

Everyone seemed to hold their breaths as Harold and The Machine faced each other. Harold studied his creation, and The Machine straightened her back almost instinctively in response to Harold’s inspection.

Finally, Harold sighed. “Will you please take that stuff off your face?” he muttered with no real heat, approaching her and pulling out his handkerchief. The Machine closed her red eyes as Harold gently wiped off her makeup, and when she opened them again they had once more turned to black. Her assessment boxes lit up yellow as she looked up at him.

Harold paused. Taking a breath, he said, “You look lovely.”

The room exploded in applause, taking them both off-guard.

“Let’s get this party _started!_ ” Sameen whooped, holding up a bottle of whiskey. Root pulled a party popper, raining confetti down. The Machine smiled at Harold, who smiled in return and gently nudged her off to the festivities.

The Machine bounded around the room, greeting each and every one of her assets and thanking them for coming. The adults talked amongst themselves as The Machine played party games with Lee and Taylor, including a humorous game of “Pin The Tail On The Fusco”.

Eventually Root gathered them all to do presents, most of which The Machine already knew by their credit card history. She had gotten various items of clothing (as suggested by Root in the invitation), including a scarf decorated with bird silhouettes from Zoe and another gift from Harold—a exquisitely tailored three-piece suit of her very own. She thanked them all, telling them the gifts would be immensely useful in her new adventure in the physical world.

Due to their close ages, she spent much of the party with Lee and Taylor. They had numerous questions for her, such as “What’s the funniest thing you’re looking at right now?” to which the answer was “A drunken man in Idaho who had been yelling at a duck for the past three hours”.

Lee had gone to get more punch when Taylor spoke to The Machine again. “Hey...you think you can get me one of those numbers?”

The Machine stared at him. “What?”

“It’s just-!” Taylor scrambled to explicate, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. My future, I mean. What I want to do. And I want to help people. I mean, _really_ help people, like you guys do. I’m eighteen now. That’s old enough to be in the military. And my dad taught me how to shoot. I can help.”

The Machine’s eyes widened, assessment boxes darting towards Harold and Jocelyn. “Are you out of your mind? Admin would decompile me in seconds! And that’s if your mother doesn’t tear me to pieces with her bare hands first.”

“It’s what I want to do,” Taylor said firmly. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions.” His eyes softened in a plea. “Come on, TM. Haven’t you ever done something your dad didn’t want you to because even though you know it might be dangerous, you also knew it was the right thing to do?”

The Machine didn’t answer, her mind whirling. Taylor glanced away, then frowned at what he saw. “Speaking of your dad, he doesn’t look too good.”

The Machine’s head shot up. Harold indeed looked deathly pale, quaking almost imperceptibly. John was talking to him worriedly, but it didn’t look like Harold was responding. The Machine immediately rose to her feet, walking over to her father as fast she could without startling him. Nudging John out of the way, she made sure Harold’s attention was solely on her.

“Would you like to step outside for a while?” she asked very softly.

Sweating profusely, Harold swallowed and nodded stiffly. The Machine took his hand and led him out of the apartment and into the hallway for privacy. When he exited, he pressed his back against the wall and took shuddering breaths.

“Just breathe,” The Machine soothed, stroking his hand as she had seen others do. “In...out...in...” And she repeated that until Harold was breathing calmly. They stood in silence for a few moments, The Machine waiting patiently for Harold to gain the ability to speak again.

“I’m sorry,” Harold choked out hoarsely, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to ruin your party.”

“Nothing is ruined,” The Machine reassured, still holding his hand. “Everyone is still having fun, all are in good spirits. Once you return, visibly healthy, they will resume their partying with no hesitation. There is nothing anomalous about getting a breath of fresh air.”

Harold chuckled out a smile, gazing at her fondly. “Even after all these years, you’re still taking care of me.”

The Machine smiled, a little cheekily. “Well. Goodness knows you can’t take care of yourself.”

“That’s very funny,” Harold quipped dryly, sneaking a small quirk of the lips.

The Machine’s smile grew into a smirk, then disappeared completely. Just as Harold was about to ask her what suddenly troubled her, she buried her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “What—”

An elevator dinged. An older man walked out, carrying a briefcase. Harold looked down at The Machine clinging to him; it seemed to any passersby as if he was simply comforting his daughter and not that The Machine was hiding her metallic face. Gasping in understanding, he placed his hands on her back and held her close.

The older man passed with a glance and a friendly half-smile, but nothing more.

When he finally entered his apartment, The Machine uncurled from around Harold. Smiling up at him, she stepped away. “Come back inside when you are ready,” she said simply, returning to her own apartment.

And Harold was left standing there, fingers curling at the recent memory of her in his arms.


	7. Spy Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Machine and Taylor embark on their first mission. And possibly their last.

“Root?” The Machine called, approaching her interface. “I have a new number for you.”

She handed the hacker a photo. “Alpha echo delta, uncertainty romeo oscar, ayacucho mike family.”

Root smiled. “I’ll hop to it.”

As she walked away, The Machine closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Root,” she murmured out of earshot. “I have to do this one myself.”

* * *

“Yeah, Mom, I’ll be fine. I’ll heat up some leftovers or something. Okay. Love you too. Bye.”

Hanging up, Taylor sighed. His mom would be working late again tonight. Something about a sudden paperwork pileup. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but he was eighteen! She needed to stop worrying so much.

He leaped backwards onto his bed, feeling the soft sheets wrap around his body. He would only take a quick breather to relax before he started working on homework.

His relaxation soon cut short when he saw a face above his.

The other had fast reflexes, and pulled their head back as soon as Taylor shot up. Giving a startled cry, he looked back to see The Machine poking her head through his window.

“Huh? The Machine?” Taylor sputtered.

“Did you mean what you said the other day? About wanting to help people?” she demanded.

“Uh—yeah?” Then, a more determined and serious: “Yes.”

The Machine said nothing for a moment, studying him intensively. “Follow me,” she then said, and disappeared. Taylor, thinking she had fallen, stuck his head out the window to see her waiting patiently on the front lawn.

Taylor shook his head. “That girl is crazy.”

* * *

“So, who is this guy?”

The Machine and Taylor were perched high in a neighboring tree, both watching the number intently. Taylor had binoculars in his hands and his dad’s pistol in his pocket.

“Tennyson, Phillip. He works as a cook for a nearby restaurant.”

“And that’s suspicious because...?”

“Because that’s all I know about him. No employment history, no credit reports, no education. Before last week, this man didn’t even exist.”

“A fake identity?” Taylor guessed.

“Undoubtedly,” The Machine agreed. “But why?”

“Running from something, maybe?”

“Maybe. At any rate, it’s bizarre even for the irrelevant numbers.”

“That’s why you wanted to investigate it yourself.”

The Machine looked at Taylor questioningly.

“Hey, I’m pretty smart,” he defended.

The AI opened her mouth, but didn’t say anything. Looking back to the number, The Machine narrowed her eyes as Tennyson got up from his chair. “He’s on the move. Let’s follow him.”

The two sneaked around New York on a mission. Tennyson walked past his work and down to the slums, where there were many abandoned buildings.

“Why would he come here?” Taylor questioned. “Drugs?”

Tennyson entered a seemingly random building, so The Machine dragged Taylor to the building beside it. They went up to the third floor and watched him from a window. Tennyson pulled out a cell phone, spoke a few words, and suddenly a team of men in all black appeared.

With guns.

Pointed directly at them.

“Get down!” The Machine cried, pulling Taylor to the floor as the glass shattered. Bullets rained down on them as they took cover. Taylor pulled out his pistol and waited until they had to reload to fire counter shots.

“What’s going on?” he shouted to his partner.

“It was a trap!” The Machine cried in despair, dragging her hands through her wig. “I can’t believe it! I fell for it!”

“A trap? For what?”

The Machine blinked, as if in sudden realization. “For me,” she said quietly.

“Huh?!” Taylor yelled over the shower of gunfire. In lieu of repeating herself, The Machine grabbed Taylor’s hand and dragged him off running. They escaped to the second floor, dodging shattered windows and broken glass. They heard the sound of men accumulating on the only exit.

“I don’t think we’re getting out that way,” Taylor groaned.

“No, you’re not!” The Machine replied. She backed up against an open window, Taylor’s hand in hers. Then she grabbed his torso.

“What? What are you—”

“Tell my father I’m sorry,” The Machine said, and threw Taylor out the window.

Taylor fell down, down, down...

...straight into a dumpster.

Cushioned by garbage, Taylor looked up to see The Machine facing a horde of armed men before he blacked out.

* * *

He was pulled out hours later by John Reese. His mother was next to him immediately, frantically checking for injuries and rapidly firing questions. Taylor shook his head and regained enough wits to answer.

“Mom, I’m fine but—”

“What are you doing out here?! You know this is a dangerous—”

“Mom—”

“—and in a dumpster of all places? You’re lucky Finch could track your phone or—”

“Mom, The Machine! Where’s The Machine?”

No one answered. Carter looked to Reese, who watched Finch approach Taylor worriedly.

“Why? What happened?” he asked meekly, as if he didn’t want to know the answer.

“We got attacked...she saved me...but if she didn’t come back for me...” A tear escaped Taylor’s eye. “Oh god, I think they took her,” he croaked.

“Who?” Carter demanded, but Finch’s face had gone deathly pale. Looking up, he spotted a security camera hidden away on one of the rooftops. Taking his phone out, he began to desperately hack the system despite phone hacking being much harder. When he cracked the code, the feed played, showing The Machine throwing Taylor out the window. She then backed up, putting her hands up in surrender against the armed men. One man then pulled out a taser, tasing The Machine and frying her systems. As she fell to the floor, two men scooped her up and dragged her away.

Finch stopped the feed, zooming in on The Machine’s frail-looking, almost peaceful face.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

“She wanted me to tell you that she was sorry,” Taylor said to him, and Finch’s eyes filled with bloody murder.

He was going to _kill_ whoever dared to hurt her.

“Mr. Reese, get your weapons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOR YOU, ANON!!!


End file.
